


Experimental Methods of Treatment , or; the one where Charles is a kitten

by Quietbang



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crack, Fluff, Kittens, Military, Nightmares, PTSD, also kittens, angsty fluff, did I mention kittens?, kitten!Charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:03:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietbang/pseuds/Quietbang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Charles Xavier is a psychiatrist specialising in mutant veterans suffering from PTSD.<br/>His most difficult case is Erik Lehnsherr, a traumatised war vet who barely speaks during their sessions. </p><p>He gets turned into a kitten -a wizard did it, ok?- and takes the opportunity to bond with his patient and get him to open up to him.<br/>Because, as we all know, kittens are a totally valid psychiatric treatment plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experimental Methods of Treatment , or; the one where Charles is a kitten

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for potential triggers

_I_

_Tap._

_Tap._

_Tap._

In the silence of the office, the pen tapping on the clipboard was deafening. 

Minutes passed, measured only by the gentle _tickticktick_ of the timer on the peeling formica desk. 

Erik glared at Dr Xavier.

Dr Xavier looked back mildly, his blue eyes open and calm.  
Erik looked away. A man could get lost in those eyes, if he wasn't careful. Spill all his secrets.

The thought makes him wince. 

Erik joined the army at 19. 

Erik has many secrets. 

He's not to know that Dr Xavier knows that. 

He's not to know how often the two of them go hand in hand.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _II_  
He doesn't say anything for the first session. 

Nor the second. 

This is ridiculous- he's _fine_ , he's great, they've no reason to keep him here.  
His wound has mostly healed- the doctor's say that he may never walk without a limp, but then- what d they know?  
They also say he's not ready to leave. Erik pressed his lips together tightly as he thought of this, thought of the gleam in their eyes- human, the lot of the, just waiting for his guard to drop, for him to consent, to fall asleep, and then- 

well, it- he doesn't like to think about that. 

( _Except that never stops the dreams._ ) 

He felt a spark of anger, then. It shocked him.  
He hasn't been angry in a long time. 

The third visit is the one where he finally speaks. As usual, Dr Xavier inquires mildly  
“And how are you doing today, Erik?”  
And for once, Erik does more than just glare back.  
The words come bubbling up of their own accord. They don't seem interested in consulting his brain in the matter. 

“I-” he stops, tries to censor himself, but the words come nonetheless. “I'm not.”

“What do you mean?” Dr Xavier does a very good job of not looking shocked. 

Erik thinks, distantly, that this should bother him, that he should be stopping himself- for Christ's sake, he's been around enough shrinks in his lifetime- four years, thirteen foster homes and 3 psychiatrists, thank you very fucking much- that he knows every trick in the book, what to say to cover his mistake, how to get them to leave him alone- something that isn't the truth, that isn't too close to the truth, but nonetheless sounds like it and in reality means nothing. 

But- it doesn't. He doesn't _care._

His brain feels as though it is wrapped in cotton wool, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, but he _can't sleep_ , and he finds himself fantasizing- just for a moment, jus tlong enough to cut through the numbness and feel _something_ \- about the heavy weight of a gun in his hand, the hum of metal against his flesh, the taste of oil and iron in his mouth.  
How _human_ of him. 

He starts again, then stops. “I mean.”  
He looks at Dr Xavier, who's eyebrows are raised in an enquiring _go on_. 

“I don't feel anything,” Erik says at last. “I don't- I'm tired, Dr. Xavier. Can I go back to the ward now?”

Dr Xavier looks at him, and the edges of his eyes crinkle with emotion. His voice, however, is as it usually is: soft, restrained, the English accent amplifying the feeling of calm warmth that seems to be carried by his every word. 

“All right,” he says finally. “I'll have someone send a wheelchair down, shall I?”

He had probably hoped to provoke a reaction. 

Erik was too tired to care. 

(He can still hear them scream, see the ghosts that beckon him from every corner, begging him to join them, to repent, to pay for their spilled blood with his own.  
The don't go away, with the numbness.  
The difference is that, where once he felt horror, he now feels only abstract curiosity, resignation, even.  
What would change, really? He died on Hill 677 with the rest of his squadron.  
His body's just taking it's sweet time making up its mind about it.  
That time, he thinks, is almost up.)  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _III_  
His fourth session is abruptly cancelled.  
“I'm sorry,” Dr McCoy says, and his boyish face is so full of _concern_ that Erik wants to snort.  
(He gives the kid a year. Two at tops.  
These men will eat him alive.)

“I'm sorry,” he says again, “But Dr Xavier is... indisposed. We'll arrange for you to see someone else, of course.”

Erik stares at him. He doesn't _want_ to see someone else. 

“What's wrong with him?” he wants to ask, but the words get stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth, lost in the fog, and by the time the words come out Dr McCoy is gone. 

(He wonders how he must look, staring at nothing. Rather frightening, probably. He can,t bring himself to care. He's so very tired.)  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _IV_  
The new doctor reminds him of his social worker. 

There was nothing wrong with that, of course: Jill had been a bit airy-fairy and displayed a suspicious tolerance of music therapy, but she had been nice to a scared and angry mutant boy when many people wouldn't. 

The first thing he notices about his new doctor is the lack of chip. 

The skin of her neck is smooth, not raised or scarred, and her cheekbone is missing the tell-tale raised bumps of implanted recognition software. 

A human, then. 

That is almost enough to make him angry. 

For a moment, his stomach clenches. He is aware, distantly, that all the metal in the room is rattling. 

He can hear Dr MacTaggert speaking-to him, possibly- but he can't tell what she is saying. 

His heartbeat races in his ears. 

The air seems thick, and heavy.

He's choking- why is he choking? Can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe. 

The air is trapped, the room is getting hotter, and he _can't breathe, damn it_. 

He feels something wet on his thigh. 

He looks down. 

The metal frame of the chair has melted against his leg. 

He twitches, and the room shakes violently, and he _can't breathe_!

He feels a pinch in his shoulder. 

His vision blurs, and everything fades to black.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _V_  
He wakes up in stages, noting with disgust the cottony, metallic taste of his tongue. 

There is something in the room with him. 

He is not alone. 

He pushes himself up cautiously.

" _MROW!_ "

He looks at the source of the noise with astonishment. 

Something is sitting on his chest. 

A small, furry, something. 

A small, furry, blue-eyed something. 

There is a kitten on his chest. 

It doesn't seem terribly pleased. 

It stares at him disapprovingly. 

“Uh,” Erik says quietly, “Hello there.”

“Mraow?”

The kitten is looking at him intently. Looking hesitant, it reaches up a small, white paw and bats at his face. 

“Ow!” Erik hisses as it tentatively touches a cut he does not remember getting. “Don't do that!”

The kitten looks apologetic, and flicks its tail. 

It nudges its head against his shoulder, and, for some reason, Erik can tell that this is meant as an apology. 

The kitten looks at him expectantly. 

“Uh... I'm Erik.”

The kitten, for some reason, purrs at this, and attempts to burrow into his armpit. 

Erik lets it.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _VI_  
The kitten's name is Charlie. 

Erik stares at him. 

“You were selected for the partnership program. Didn't Dr MacTaggert tell you?”

Erik considers this. It's... possible, he supposes. He doesn't remember much from their first meeting. 

“No,” he says quietly, and the young doctor jumps. 

Clearly, he hadn't been expecting an answer.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _VII_

He needs to eat. 

He knows that. 

His food tray lies, untouched, across from the bed. 

He glances at it from his pillow. 

He's not hungry. 

He's not hungry, but they've threatened him with a feeding tube if he doesn't start eating. 

He raises his head.

Does it matter?

 _If you don't eat, you'll die._  
He's not sure where that thought comes from. 

_Do you want to die?_

He isn't sure. 

Maybe.

_Why do you want to die?_

Where are these thoughts coming from?

Maybe he's lost his mind. 

He wants to sleep. He wants to sleep, and he's not sure he wants to wake up again. 

From the foot of his bed, the kitten meows plaintively and rubs against him. 

Its food is on the tray, too. 

Erik looks at Charlie. 

Charlie looks at Erik. 

Erik gets up and grabs the tray.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _VII_  
He wakes up screaming. 

His heart beats like a hummingbird's, and his hands are shaking, jumping like large, pale spiders in the dim light of the ward. 

He hears his screams wake up other men in the distance, hears their groans and hollers, and can' tbring himself to care. 

He can't breathe. He can't _breathe!_

He hears purring from beside him as Charlie crawls over the blankets and onto his chest. 

For a moment, he panics at the weight, then settles as he begins to knead his chest. 

Slowly, his heartbeat returns to normal.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _IX_  
He doesn't know why he starts talking to him. 

Maybe because he's lonely.

Maybe because he's lost his mind. 

Maybe because, of all the people he's met in the last little while, only the kitten has spent enough time with him to earn his trust. 

(And, he supposes the fact that it has big blue eyes and tabby fur and scruffy whiskers and is generally pretty fucking adorable doesn't exactly hurt.)  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _X_

_“They couldn't- it all happened so fast..._

_"I should have bene able to do something..._

_“I promised my mother..._

_“She would have hated me._

_“I don't want to die..._

_“I'm so_ fucking _tired of this..._

_“What if I can't go back?_

_“I've only ever been a soldier..._

_“I joined up when I was 19, you know? Me and my best friend, we went on my birthday..._

_“We served together for a while..._

_“There was this one kid who always reminded me of him.. He was a mutant, see. Do you know that that is? Do cats have mutations?_

_“There's something wrong with me, isn't there.”_

Charlie looked up at him and batted his cheek. 

He meowed softly.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________

_XI_

It happens one day as he's watching Charlie fight a battle to the death with the ugly plastic blinds. 

He laughs. 

It startles him, and it must have done the kitten, too, because it sneezes, and he smiles again and that is when he realizes that he _doesn't want to die._

In a perfect world, that would have been the end of it. He would have been cured, would have left the hospital and never looked back, would never have had a nightmare or a flashback or a panic attack ever again. 

Erik's seen this film. He knows that's how it's supposed to go. 

But this isn't a fairy tale, or a soap opera, or a made-for-TV movie. 

And so that is not the end, but it is the beginning.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _XII_

He starts talking, after that. 

Not a lot, but enough. 

Enough to convince Dr MacTaggert that he's ready to move on- to a halfway house he's heard the other men whisper about, a place run by Dr Xavier, apparently- a sanctuary between the hospital and the loud noises and threats on every corner that lie beyond the doors. 

He can't take the kitten with him. 

He doesn't cry when he finds that out. Really. Not even a little. 

It was just a _cat_ , after all.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _XIII_  
Dr Xavier greets him when he limps in the door. 

The place is _huge_ , like a castle, and Erik can't believe that any of this is real. 

Dr Xavier shakes his hand warmly. “Welcome home, Erik,” he says with a smile. 

Erik does not bother to correct him. 

(There is a kitten on his bed when he walks in. Nobody seems to know where it came from.  
Dr Xavier suggests the barn. Apparently there are a lot of feral cats outside, one of them must have gotten in somehow- perhaps Erik would permit him to-  
Erik growled and wrapped his arms, strong and scarred, around the small ball of black fluff.  
Her eyes were green like jewels.  
Erik names her Killer.)  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________

_XIV_

(“Well, Erik,” Dr Xavier said as he smiled. “Are you ready to begin?”  
He looked hopefully at him over his clipboard.  
Erik would like to think that he suprised both of them by saying yes. )

**Author's Note:**

> Depictions of: violence, PTSD, panic attacks, suicidal ideation.


End file.
